Free The Queen v. Karl Mullen by Michael Gilbert Page A

chosen his office with an eye to making it difficult to watch. Difficult, that is, without the watchers being noticed. Axe Lane is not the sort of place someone can hang about in all day. He’d be noticed inside five minutes and reported in ten.”
    “Not easy,” agreed Mr. Auchstraw. “Needs thought.”
    From one of his cabinets he had extracted a street guide and a section of the excellent plan which is produced by the Land Registry. It was on a scale large enough to show individual buildings. He said, “Two turnings off Axe Lane. I see. Harnham Court and Deanery Passage. Both running up to big office blocks. They must employ commissionaires.”
    “I don’t think it’s any use approaching them. They’ve already been bought.” He explained the system of alternative exits devised by Yule.
    “Cunning bugger,” said Mr. Auchstraw in tones of warm appreciation. “You know what it means, don’t you? On a weekday, if you wanted to be sure of following anyone coming out, you’d need a team of four permanently on duty. And if you’re wanting to organise permanent observation you’ve only got two options. You could use someone employed in one of the other buildings. Trouble is, the ones on either side are banks. They’re apt to be holier-than-thou. Then there are three buildings on the other side of the road lower down. Numbers 15, 17 and 19. According to this guide they’re all of them occupied by dozens of small outfits. All right. If money’s really no object, I might be able to take a room in one of them on a short let. Say three months. It wouldn’t be cheap, though.”
    “It might not be cheap, And I realise it will involve you in a good deal of work. But if you could manage it, that would be ideal.”
    “We never object to trouble and extra work,” said Mr. Auchstraw, “as long as it helps our clients.” He sounded so benevolent when he said this that Captain Hartshorn found himself listening for a choir of angel voices.
     
    Other parties were on the move on that fine Saturday morning. Roger set out after breakfast from his top-floor flat in Osnaburgh Terrace, walked the short distance to Warren Street underground station and took a Northern Line train in the direction of Edgware.
    He was impelled by the thought that had been worrying him, on and off, for two days. Overnight it had taken more definite shape and now he fancied that he could track it to its source.
    Nor was he displeased at getting out of the flat. His son, Michael, was home from St. Paul’s for the first long weekend of the autumn term. He had arrived with a split lip and a black eye. (‘Playing against Dulwich. Dirty crowd’) and the conversation had been mostly about rugby football, but Roger had an uneasy feeling that shop-lifting was soon going to surface. It was partly on account of this that he had decided to devote a whole morning to trying to lay a ghost.
    He did not know that he was being followed. The idea had not crossed his mind; nor was there any reason that it should have done.
    The train pottered northward, coming out into the open between Hampstead and Golders Green and finally depositing him at Colindale. He had been worried about getting into the Newspaper Library and was relieved to find that his British Museum reader’s ticket passed him in without trouble.
    The nondescript man who was following him was not so fortunate. Having tried, without success, to sidle past the commissionaire on the door he was forced to hang about outside.
    A helpful assistant dealt with Roger’s enquiry.
    “Oxford,” he said. “City or University?”
    “Could be either.”
    “Then I suggest you consult Willing’s Press Guide. It’s on the shelf over there. It will give you all the names. Do you know the date?”
    Yes, he knew the date. Mullen had said, ‘I came down a year after you did.’ So that must be the year when it happened; if it did.
    He filled in a form and composed himself to wait. His thoughts were not entirely